Network of Friends
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: Two members of the Homeless Network find Sherlock beaten and left for dead in an alley.


**Just a short story idea. **

**Sorry about any mistakes.**

Network of Friends

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!" The detective forced his eyes open, taking in the faces of the people hovering over him as he fought to regulate his breathing. "Mr. Holmes?"

_"Mr. Holmes?"_ The voice seemed distant; a pounding like sensation beat in the detective's ears, echoing around his pained head, "_Mr. Holmes!"_ The consulting detective forced his eyes open, the blurred figures above him becoming clear as he blinked, taking in the faces hovering over him as he fought to regulate his breathing, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest. "Mr. Holmes?" The voice was closer now, clearer, and Sherlock recognised it to belong to Bounty, a 19 year old he had added to his Homeless Network just a week earlier.

"Get John," Was the first think Sherlock Holmes rasped when his head was clear enough to make sense of everything; almost instantly, the girl to his left, Mirabel, pulled her phone from her pocket, quickly dialling the number for the doctor, mentally praying for him to answer quickly. Bouncy lowered himself to the ground beside the adult, remaining quiet as the detective trembled slightly, wincing as the involuntary action sent pain shooting through almost every part of his body.

"What happened?" Questioned the youngest of the pair as the detective forced himself into a sitting position, using up what little strength he had and leaning up against the cold, damp wall behind him.

"I've been attacked," Sherlock mumbled, his usual eloquence having been lost during the attack; his pounding headache wasn't helping. Even his usual bite at such a stupid question didn't show. "I don't know by who, or why, but I've been attacked."

"He said 10 minutes, Mr. Holmes." He was joined on his other side by Mirabel, having just returned off the phone with his doctor.

"I can't breathe," The detective murmured, his panicked eyes shooting towards Bounty who knelt up in front of him.

"Mr. Holmes, you're having a panic attack," Bounty's voice was soft, gentle but not degrading, "You need to focus on your breathing. You know how to breathe so I won't belittle you and explain it." Sherlock's watery gaze met Bounty's, a look of gratitude shining in his eyes. "Doctor Watson will be here soon anyway."

"Mr. Holmes," Mirabel soothed, "please try and calm down." The detective did as he was told and focused his attention of his breathing.

"Sherlock!" Three heads raised at the sound, turning towards the end of the alley. Each head held a different face and each face a different expression. The detective looked oddly small and frightened as he looked towards his doctor who was jogging down the alleyway towards him, sitting between the two members of the Homeless Network.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock?" John Watson questioned, noting how his friend winced at the sound of his voice, his attention focused on his shaking hands. Blood coated the side of the detectives face, both dry and fresh, running from a gash on his head, just below his hairline. Sherlock's left eye was red and swollen, the pupil slightly larger than the right; John reached out, shading the damaged eye from the light and watching the delayed contraction.

"Concussion," he grumbled, "the head injury needs stitches." John quickly scanned over his friend's form as the detective listed where he hurt; John examining every injury and determining the seriousness of it.

"...and my stomach." Sherlock finished, wincing as the doctor reached out, unbuttoning his friend's shirt and inspecting his bruised abdomen.

"Your bottom two ribs are fractured, your stomach is bruised," John noted as he prodded and poked at the detective before turning his attention to the two helpers. "You," he pointed his finger Mirabel, "contact Lestrade," he ordered, knowing that the girl had access to the Detective Inspector, "ask for access to the CCTV footage from last night. Tell him I asked for it." Mirabel began the task instantly, "And you," John pointed at Bounty, "go and hail a cab. Get them to wait." The youngest of the group nodded, standing and running out of the alley and towards the main streets. There was a cab ready and waiting, door open, for when the doctor arrived with his patient. "Bart's, please." John assisted the detective into the car, closing the door behind them and nodding his gratitude towards the young members of the homeless network.

The pair were at home, Sherlock lying on the sofa, his head stitched and bandage, pain killers coursing around his body, when Sherlock called his name. His injuries had been bad, but not life threatening, and the footage from Lestrade had the culprits held in a cell facing a charge for assault. Sherlock was in a large amount of pain, but he had John to keep an eye on him.

"John?" Sherlock questioned, the doctor in question tore his gaze from the window, his attention focused on Sherlock, "I think we should invite them for dinner." John stared at Sherlock as though the man had grown an extra head whilst he tried to decipher what he was talking about. "Bounty and Mirabel," Sherlock supplied, "They may have saved my life, John, the least we can do is offer them a warm meal."

John couldn't help but smile, watching the detective's eyebrows furrow in confusion; he relaxed into his chair, the smile still on his face as he thought of how he just might make a caring man of Sherlock yet.

**Thanks for reading. Please, let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


End file.
